


a blanket of stars

by LilyRosePotter



Series: Left on the ground [2]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Homecoming, M/M, PTSD, Plane Crash, missing presumed dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 09:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRosePotter/pseuds/LilyRosePotter
Summary: It’s been three hundred and twenty-three days on the island when the boat appears on the horizon.
Relationships: Jon Favreau/Jon Lovett
Series: Left on the ground [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544659
Comments: 9
Kudos: 61





	a blanket of stars

It’s been three hundred and twenty-three days on the island when the boat appears on the horizon. 

They’re all a little slow to react - every one of them as disbelieving as the next, Lovett thinks dimly as Jean and Claude look up from the math problems he’d drawn for them in the sand. 

Shan drops one of his prized spears and wades deeper into the water from the shallow shoals where he’d been fishing. His arms wave over his head as he yells in his booming voice that might even carry to the tiny bobbing vessel, the first sign of civilization in forty-six weeks, in the seven thousand eight hundred hours since the plane started to shake in the sky. 

By the time the tiny dot where the endless sea meets the sky has become a clear, distinct outline of a boat that must be a small fisherman’s rig, hard to imagine braving any kind of storm, all eleven of them are standing together on the beach, breath coming fast and terrified. 

Lovett looks around at them, heart swelling a little with the last remnants of fever, a rush of adrenaline, and a lot of affection.

The kids are pressed close to Marie’s side, blinking at the boat like it’s an alien thing. They might get to grow up yet, go back to real schools instead of Lovett’s half remembered history lessons; science class blending with science fiction in his more starved, dehydrated moments. The hollowness in Jean’s eyes and Claude’s cheekbones might fade, the tears Marie still tries to hide at night finally subsiding with proper therapy. 

Wendy and Chen are leaning together beyond Marie, hands linked tightly. Home isn’t the most welcoming place for them, but, Lovett hopes, their families might be more accepting of their daughters’ love after nearly losing them. They might blend their Chinese heritage and the women they’ve learned to be at Berkley right in with the island. They were both already _survivors_, long before the plane lost altitude. 

Wei’s steadying Junyan, hobbling down to the sand from the hut, his ankle wrapped up with seaweed and leaves. There might be a real first-aid kit on the boat, a real hospital at the other end; where Junyan can recover and go back to barking orders at his employees; where Wei can get back to treating people with real medicine and less prayers, whispered when she thinks her patients are asleep. Lovett will never know what she murmured over him in those hazy hallucinatory days of the fever, but he’s not entirely sure it wasn’t magic to go along with the herbal medicine. 

Chad winks at him when their eyes meet and Lovett looks away, quickly, to Shan wading back in, grinning broadly. 

“They are coming in,” Shan pronounces with ceremony, his English far from the stumbling words he’d confided got him mocked at the intensive cooking competition he’d won in Santa Fe before being reduced to frying fish over a fire. “We will get on the boat and leave this place.” 

“Hopefully,” Ellen says softly, the fear in her voice cascading like ice water over Shan’s smile, over Lovett’s treacherously hopeful thoughts. “That boat doesn’t look like it’ll fit all of us.”

“It will,” Marie says, firmer than she’s been since they realized no one else was making it to the beach. “It has to.” 

The boat pulls into the shallows, nets fluttering in the breeze and a man jumping off into the water to frown at them curiously. They must make a picture, in clothes that have long since gone ragged, bodies unkempt, tanned, and emaciated.

The man yells something in a language that isn’t English. Isn’t Chinese either, Lovett can see from the look Shan throws to Wei. 

Claude tugs on his hand nervously as Junyan manages a halted sentence that the fisherman must understand. Lovett squeezes back, watching as the first fisherman looks back at the boat where two other men are leaning over, yelling unintelligibly. 

The guy in the water makes a gesture to the group of them on the sand, shaking his head a little. Junyan’s response is sharp and makes the guy straighten and sigh a little before gesturing to the boat. 

“They’ll take us to the mainland,” Junyan translates, tersely, hobbling forward with Wei’s help. “He doesn’t like it, says they don’t have room or time. But they’ll do it.” 

“Don’t we need-” Wendy glances up the shore.

“Attached to your leaf pillow?” Chad rolls his eyes at her gently. “We don’t have anything that matters but getting out of here, come on.” 

Lovett swallows hard and lifts Claude to his hip to follow Shan and Ellen into the water, minnows darting around his feet, disturbed by all the movement. He glances back, just once, to make sure that Marie’s following with Jean. There’s nothing else he needs to see here. Nothing here he’ll ever forget, either. 

He hands Claude, then Jean, up into the arms of one of the fisherman on board, then helps Marie climb the rickety rope ladder before forcing his own feet to trust the frayed knots. 

The second Lovett’s feet hit the wooden deck, steady and _man-made_ under him, a wave of nausea rushes over him, so strong that he can barely make it to sit in the narrow space between ropes and boxes and nets. 

They’re off the island. They’re on a boat heading for the mainland. They’re going _home_. 

Lovett’s sure his heart stops at his next, all consuming thought. _I get to see Jon again_. 

His entire existence is taken over for an instant of bright fluttering hope before the boat rocks and Lovett comes crashing back down to Earth. It’s been three hundred and twenty three days. Almost a full year. 

He’s been over this countless times, chasing the boys down the beach, teaching them the few constellations he remembers on nights when none of them can sleep, wracked with hunger, thirst, exhaustion, disease. 

Lovett’s been gone for a year. Everyone must think he’s dead. Jon has certainly moved on; Jon probably never _really_ wanted Lovett anyway. 

Even if Jon did. Even if he wanted Lovett, Lovett missed his chance. 

He did so many good things in his life. Things that he’s _proud_ of, after months of reflection. He wrote jokes for the President of the United States; he introduced Tommy to _Portal_; he wrote a speech for the repeal of DADT; he insulted Buzz Aldrin; he maybe, at least once, made his parents proud; he loved Pundit, _Pundit_; he wrote a cult classic TV show; he made Jon snort the whipped cream in his sugary Starbucks drink at least four times; he helped found a company that did _good_; he saw Jon naked; he made people laugh. 

He could have been happy. Happy with a life that was too short, but so good, if only he’d done the last thing. If only he’d _told Jon the truth_. 

Jon might have said no. He might have laughed in Lovett’s face and drove away. But then, Lovett would know, at least. He could have died on the island, almost happily, if he’d known. 

_Jon, I-_ love you, love you, love you. 

“Good fucking riddance!” someone calls, and they must be pulling away from the island, the motor is shaking the boards under him and they’re really leaving. 

The boat is going to the mainland. Asia, somewhere, presumably. If Jon had been next to him on the flight, Lovett might have seen where they were on the damn map that Jon watches like he’s keeping the plane in the air with it. They’ll land in China or the Philippines or Japan or Thailand and they’ll get help and get back to America. 

Lovett can _see_ LA unfolding in front of him, traces the familiar streets and turns and driveways until he gets to Jon’s. Walks up the sidewalk slowly, the windowboxes Jon’s mom planted flowers in and Jon never remembers to water, three of Leo’s balls in the front lawn. Lifts his hand to knock on the door and-

What comes next? 

Lovett’s imagination completely stops at Jon’s door. He can’t see any of the possibilities, for what happens after he knocks, no matter how much he pushes his brain.

“Lovett. Lovett. _Lovett_.” 

Lovett forces his eyes to blink. Jean’s climbing into his lap, eyes wide and wet and scared. “Will you tell us a story?” 

“Please,” Claude echoes behind Jean. 

Lovett swallows and pulls them both close. “Yeah,” he nods a little. “Let me think-” 

He’s been telling them stories for almost eleven months. They’re in the middle of his questionable retelling of _The Force Awakens_, after exhausting all the Tolkien he could remember. The space explorers of the drama he’s been “performing” for the whole lot of them, mingling _Star Trek_ and _Stargate_, _Babylon 5 _and _Doctor Who_ plots together with a cast of characters that might resemble his Crooked family, sue him, are in the middle of diplomatic negotiations with an alien race that has six tongues and no eyes. 

His thoughts won’t coalesce around either plot. He can’t distinguish Rey from the expedition’s fearless leader - Tanyi - in his head, let alone in the words leaving his mouth. 

All he can think is _Jon_. 

“Once upon a time,” Lovett squeezes Claude’s knee, “there was a prince, who could convince anyone of anything.” Jon, sitting in his dingy, windowless White House office, typing away and turning to frown _what have you done this time, Lovett_?

“And his best friends were his loyal knight, and the son of one of his father’s, the king’s, courtiers. The knight was a great friend to the prince, always there to give advice or watch,” Jon and Tommy jump up from the creaking couch in 13bro9 to scream at a touchdown - they must be so grateful not to have anyone bitching about sports anymore, “jousting. But the count’s son, he was always getting the prince in trouble with his schemes.” 

“Not a very good friend,” Jean says solemnly. 

“Not always, no,” Lovett swallows. _Jon, I-_

“What kind of trouble?” Claude presses. 

“One time,” Lovett stalls, a thousand images flashing in front of his eyes. _A scooter, Lovett, this is the White House!_ mixing with _you told POTUS _what_?!?_ and _explain that to me again. Mac and cheese?_ “There was a foreign ambassador visiting the wh-, the palace, and he brought his daughter with him. She was about your age, Claude, and the count’s son somehow ended up in charge of distracting her while the prince and his father had an important meeting with the ambassador.” 

“I’d like to go to a palace,” Jean says dreamily. 

Lovett touches his hair gently. “Maybe someday.” Now, he could entertain the ambassador’s daughter, easy. But then- somehow there’d been a tantrum, and the only thing he could think of to avert it had been- “the count’s son promised the ambassador’s daughter that he would get her a snack from the kitchen. The best mac and cheese in the world. But he forgot something important.” 

“What?” Claude asks eagerly. 

To check the mess schedule. “That the cook only made her famous, magical mac and cheese when she had just the right cheese, gotten from a faraway land, and she was all out!” Lovett smiles in spite of himself when the boys gasp. “So the ambassador’s daughter couldn’t have her mac and cheese, and she went and cried to her father and the ambassador was very angry at the prince and the king that the prince’s friend had made her cry.” 

“But the prince fixed it,” Jean says with certainty. 

Lovett’s heart twists. “Of course he did. The prince could fix any of his friend’s mistakes.” 

_I can’t believe we’ve left our jobs, in the _White House, _to go to fucking Wawa for macaroni and cheese_, Jon had complained a dozen times on the walk. _The speech was done anyway_, Lovett countered, _I’ll buy you a cookie to make up for it_. _Double Chocolate Chip_. Jon had beamed at him, making Lovett’s heart flip, even while he muttered _you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me._

“The prince remembered that there was a woman in the village near the palace who made wonderful mac and cheese,” Lovett tells the boys, rubbing Jean’s back as his head droops onto Lovett’s shoulder. “He and the count’s son walked down in the rain to get a big bowl of it, and the ambassador’s daughter was pleased and the crisis was averted.” 

“And they all lived happily ever after,” Claude smiles, leaning onto Lovett’s knee and closing his own eyes. 

Not yet, Lovett doesn’t say. Maybe not ever. 

His chest aches in a way far beyond the pressure of Jean’s body on it as he tries again to knock on Jon’s door. He frantically pushes his brain to see _anything_. Even Jon slamming the door on him would be better. 

Better than the frame of Jon’s grey hair glinting in the sun as the door opens, without even an image of his face, that Lovett is stuck on. But no matter how he tries, while the boat bobs and dips and the sun beats down on them, he can't see anything. 

His mental images of Jon stop the morning Jon dropped him off at LAX, three hundred twenty three days and a million lifetimes ago. Even those are a little fuzzy, Jon’s grin into Pundit’s curls fading at the edges, Jon’s hand tapping the wheel in traffic in a rhythm Lovett _can’t remember_, heart racing as he tries. 

He can’t lose Jon _now_, when his memories of Jon have kept him going through dreams of nuclear war and Republicans winning the midterms and stock market crashes and aliens landing while Lovett _missed it all_. Even visions of Jon dropping to one knee for some beautiful supermodel are better than _losing_ him. 

Lovett _has to_ remember Jon. 

Jon laughing in the studio; Jon naked in his bed; Jon frowning at his phone and not watching where he’s walking until Lovett has to stop him from tripping into traffic. 

Jon saving the last egg roll for Lovett, and rolling it towards his plate with his chopsticks; Jon ribbing Lovett on stage before pulling him backstage to kiss him and calm their nerves.

Jon squinting at Tanya while she gives him pickups; Jon and Tommy leaning towards each other in a sports bar. 

Jon smiling. 

Jon nervous. 

Jon freaking out before flights. Jon panicking about _planes crashing_. Lovett making his worst nightmare come tr-

Jon playing with Leo and Pundit. Jon standing by the car, petting Pundit’s head, as he watched Lovett leave them. _Pundit_. 

Lovett hopes she's okay, hopes that, regardless of what Jon himself might be feeling, lovett hasn't misread how much Jon loves her. He can still picture Leo and Pundit curled on Jon's bed, _thank god_. Remembers them waiting at the door, pathetic, where Jon unceremoniously shut them out before pushing Lovett down onto his bed. 

Pundit and Leo. Chasing after each other for balls or just for fun in the backyard; Curled up at Jon and Lovett and Tommy’s feet in the studio or on their laps at their desks.

Jon pulling Pundit into his lap while they were recording, laughing with his entire damn body at one of Lovett's _stupid_ jokes, until Pundit put her paws on his thigh, watching him curiously. Jon reaching to pet Pundit where she was leaning against Lovett's chest.

Lovett catching Leo curled against Jon every once in a while, thinking about how a baby would look in that same spot before he could stop himself.

His traitorous brain drifts back to the future and Jon, always Jon, and he still can’t make anything coalesce. But now the foggy daydreams he used to have when he was sure he had _time_ float around helplessly. 

Jon with a baby, Jon with a ring, Jon with wrinkles and a belly grinning at Lovett over coffee in _their_ kitchen.

Jon saying "I love you," like it's as easy as breathing. The way he says it, sometimes, as a friend but meaning it so much more, meaning it in a way that makes Lovett's heart stop briefly.

The casual happy smiles and laughs that Lovett was lucky enough to be the recipient of for so many years from an older softer face. Twenty years from now, Jon's hand wrinkled in his, as they watch their children and their dogs and their company grow older and successful.

Lovett doesn’t know what happens when this boat lands on shore or how he’ll get on a plane to LA with no money and no passport or how he’ll get to Jon’s door or what will happen when he does. He still can’t picture anything past the door opening. 

But there’s suddenly a future again, and he still wants that future to be with Jon, more than he wants water or to be on dry land or to never eat fish again. Even if Jon’s moved on, the deep aching need to _know_ might be filled. No more wasted time wondering what might have been, for better or worse. 

Even if Jon has moved on and doesn’t want Lovett like Lovett wants him, he misses Jon so much it aches, burns, hurts like a hole in his side now that he’s letting himself feel it. He’s barely even nervous anymore, he just wants to be _there_, wants to be with _Jon. _

“Lovett,” a hand grabs his elbow and he blinks into the light, trying to clear his head. “We’re here mate, get up.” 

“Where?” Lovett manages, blinking against the harsh… streetlights, they’re streetlights, as Chad tugs him to his feet. 

“Malaysia, they say,” Chad says easily, keeping a steady grip on Lovett’s elbow. “Come on, you gotta get off the boat if you want to get home to your man.” 

“Chad,” Lovett starts, head swimming a little as he steps shakily onto the dock. It doesn’t move under his feet, which makes him feel even less steady, somehow. 

They haven’t talked about it since the night Chad leaned across their makeshift bench next to the fire to kiss him, hand sliding tight around Lovett’s back while Lovett kissed him back until the sharp realization ran through Lovett like a knife. 

The next morning, after pushing Chad away and fleeing into the hut, Lovett offered awkwardly, “I’m sorry- I can’t- I’ve got a... someone at home.” Jon’s hurt face floating in his vision.

Chad had given him a condescending look, “It’s not like we’re going home.” His look said the rest of what Lovett’s mind was already screaming _and it’s not like Jon’s waiting for you to live his life_.

"Maybe, maybe not,” Lovett had pushed the thought away with a shrug. “But even if we don't I'm, ahh, with him, mentally, you know?"

Now, on a rickety dock in Malaysia, Chad smiles at him, soft and encouraging and a little bit sad, “he’s gonna be so happy to see you.” 

“I don’t know,” Lovett shrugs, forcing himself to take one step, then another. “It’s been a long time.”

“He will,” Chad repeats, steering him towards the cars that the others are climbing into - _cars_ \- “if he has any idea what he’s been missing.” 

Lovett swallows, Chad’s words echoing in his head as he stares out the window while the city whips by. His worst fear, this whole dreadful year, has been that no one is missing him at all. 

His parents, relieved that there won’t be any new ways in which their son disappoints them. Steph, focused on her marriage and the baby and her own life. Spencer and Dan and Brendan glad that they don’t have to pretend to care about politics. 

Crooked, outgrowing everything he helped build. New shows taking off anda funnier host for _Lovett or Leave It_ and the success he wants for it, his name a dusty leftover in the record books. 

Tommy, relieved by the lack of mess in their office and his life. Jon, _Jon_, dating and moving on and settling down. Thinking of Lovett occasionally, fondly, he hopes. 

Lovett pictures walking up to Jon’s door again, knocks, tries to imagine some beautiful woman with a kind smile answering. He can’t even see _her_. 

The door stays stubbornly shut, with Jon on the other side. 

He has to see Jon. 

His heartbeat pounds it stubbornly: _Jon, Jon, Jon_, as the car pulls up to a hospital, as they’re ushered inside by shocked faces and loud voices. 

Someone grabs Lovett’s arm and tows him, unresisting, after Shan’s broad shoulders, sits him on a hospital bed, sticks a thermometer in his mouth and a needle in his arm, ignoring his yelp of pain. 

The hospital must have cleared a whole ward out for them, all eleven of them sat on beds in a row, like the fucking hospital wing from _Harry Potter_. The nurses worried about infection maybe, or, Lovett realizes as several men in suits enter, security. 

_Jon, Jon, Jon._

“What’s the last thing you remember before the crash?” 

“What were you doing when the oxygen masks dropped?”

“How did you get to this _island_?”

Lovett hears the questions echoing around him before the men get to his bed. Of course. The Malaysian government isn’t just going to _accept_ that they survived. 

“Mr. Lovett, is it?” The man who sits in front of him has greying hair and a polite smile, though you couldn’t call it warm. “Do you remember when you knew your plane was going down?”

_Jon, Jon, I thought about Jon_. 

“I want you to call the American embassy,” Lovett’s surprised how steady his voice is. “I’m not talking to anyone until someone from my embassy gets here. 

The Americans will be suspicious too, but at least they’ll- is the Malaysian government at all democratic? Lovett wishes he’d listened _a little_ more closely to some of Tommy’s geopolitics. At least the ones about the part of the world he was about to hop a flight to.

The man looks surprised, but nods a little. “We will call them. When we’re done with our first round here.” 

“Now,” Lovett repeats. “I’m not saying anything until you do.” 

He’s not letting them keep him here. 

_Jon, Jon, Jon_.

The man stands up and walks away, but doesn’t reach for a phone. _God_ what Lovett wouldn’t give for a phone, or some pizza, or a fucking razor. Lovett watches as the men press Wendy; press Wei, arguing that she needs to talk to the nurses; press Chad while he lounges on the hospital bed unconcerned; turn towards Claude- 

“Marie,” Lovett hisses, knowing he’s drawing attention anyway, “make them leave the kids alone.” 

She nods, calling both boys to her side on her bed and glaring at the men. Lovett winks at Jean, trying not to show his worry while Marie tells them to call the Canadian embassy. They’re all going to be okay, they’re all going to get home. 

_Jon, Jon, Jon._

After an eternity, the men leave, letting the nurses sweep back in. 

No one comes while the nurses fuss and draw blood samples. 

No one comes while they poke Lovett with more needles to insert an IV. “You’re dehydrated, sir.” 

No one comes while a doctor leans over him and frowns, “you need antibiotics, lucky this infection didn’t kill you.” While Wei tiptoes behind him to squeeze Lovett’s hand and he whispers “_thank you_” with all the gratitude he can muster. 

If she hadn’t managed to save him- 

_Jon, Jon, Jon_. 

No one comes while the nurses _finally_ hand around bowls of weak soup. While Lovett begs for a shower and a razor and just gets pitying looks and shitty scrubs. 

No one comes while the nurse orders “get some rest” and pushes him down, pulls a blanket over him, promises, “you’re safe now.”

No one comes while Lovett lays in the narrow hard bed, sure he can’t sleep a wink.

_Jon, Jon, Jon._

No one comes while he forces his eyes open against bright sunshine, reaching to rub the sand out of his eyes. While the same nurse from before smiles and hands him water and a piece of toast. While she denies him a razor and shower _again_ but offers the shittiest sponge bath known to man. 

No one comes while Jean and Claude climb onto his bed and ask for a story. While Lovett, vision blurring a bit at the edges with flashes of silvering hair, warm brown eyes, gap teeth, yields, finally, and just tells them about pushing a Jeep down Sunset. 

_Jon, Jon, Jon_. 

The door finally swings open after another disappointing meal of rice and milk. 

The man in the suit has an American flag lapel pin. 

An American flag. 

He looks like a harried, low-level foreign service officer. Lovett, embarrassingly, cries at the sight of him. 

He approaches slowly, like Lovett’s sniffed back tears might explode, and sits gingerly in a chair between Lovett and Ellen’s beds. “My name is Greg Miles. I work at the embassy here in Kuala Lumpur. I’m sorry it took so long to get here, but I’m very happy to see you.” 

“You have no idea,” Lovett shakes his head a little. “When can we go home?” 

_Jon, Jon, Jon._

Greg looks apologetic, at least, as he pushes through the same questions they’ve been asked by the Malaysians and the doctors. Lovett mumbles answers as best he can, but he can't- the nightmare of the past year is crystal clear, but he can’t _care_ about the details right now. All he wants is to get out of this damn hospital and go _back_. 

“Okay,” Greg says finally. “Thanks for talking to me, I’m gonna get you home as soon as I can.” 

“Can we,” Ellen interrupts, “have phones at least? I want to talk to my husband and kids and I’m sure Lovett wants to call-” 

_Jon, Jon, Jon_. 

“My business partners,” Lovett ventures, a little awkwardly, hating the looks they give him.

“We want to keep it out of the news as long as possible,” Greg frowns. “There’s a lot of high level diplomatic… You can’t call anyone yet, I’m sorry. 

Lovett’s heart doesn’t even sink. It’s better to just get home anyway. 

_Jon_. 

“We have to handle a bit more red tape,” Greg shrugs apologetically as he stands. Lovett wonders if he has any other mode of being besides apologetic. Probably not, he’s a bureaucrat. “I’m sorry. In the meantime get some rest and food, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Lovett watches him go, a little dazed. They’re going home, he’s going to see Jon again. The American government knows they’re here, they’re working to get them home. 

Everything else is just a temporary barrier. Red tape. 

The nurses poking at his arm again; the Malaysian suits coming back with more questions; the nightmare Chen wakes up screaming from; the shitty hospital food; the fact that his long awaited shower, when the nurses finally allow it, is _freezing_ and comes without a razor or scissors for the scraggly, unkempt hair he finally sees in the mirror. 

_Jon, Jon, Jon_. 

Even the dark look on Greg’s face when he returns an indeterminable time later, is just red tape, surely. The four fatigue-clad servicemembers with him are red tape.

“We have to leave now,” Greg murmurs into the space between their beds. “The Malaysians are- we have a military transport outside.”

Lovett slides to his feet, lets one of the Army guys carefully remove his IV, shakes his head when another reaches for the travel kit the nurses had given him. He follows Greg towards the door with halting steps, but freezes by one of the beds. 

Claude is sitting up, wrapped in a blanket, eyes wide and scared. 

Lovett trips towards him as Greg hisses, “come on,” wraps Claude’s shaking body in his arms and kisses his hair. 

“We’ll see each other again love, I promise,” Lovett whispers. 

Claude nods, quiet and solemn. “Travel safe,” he whispers back. 

“Whazzit?” Jean mumbles, blinking from the pillow behind Claude. 

“C’mere bud,” Lovett reaches for him, pulling them both into his lap side by side and letting himself bask in their trusting warmth for as long as he dares. “I’m so proud of both of you,” he whispers through the lump in his throat, “and I’m gonna see you later, after we all go home.” 

He kisses both their heads again, hugging their soft, “yes, Lovett”s close to his chest before forcing himself to let go, feeling like he’s tearing his heart apart to do it. He grabs Greg’s elbow tightly before Greg can take another step, “the Canadians?” 

“Right behind us,” Greg promises. “I was on the phone with the embassy on the way over.”

Lovett nods a little and lets Greg steer him out. The kids will be fine. They’re going home. He’s going home. 

He’s going to see Jon in-

“How long?” he asks quietly once they’re in the truck, heading for the airstrip. 

“Eight hours in the air,” the woman next to him says carefully. She’s wearing an Air Force uniform and her name tag says _O’Connor_. “To the Air Force base at LAX.” 

Lovett nods, jerkily. _Eight hours_. 

“Please, can we call home,” Ellen asks again, quietly.

“You’ll be on the ground before we could get a secure line through,” Greg sighs. “I promise, you’ll see them soon.” 

Ellen’s voice goes sharp, but Lovett just settles into the seat, glancing out the window. _LAX_. _Home_. _Jon_. 

He thinks about going home while they drive to the airstrip, while they get out of the truck, while they load into the military plane and strap into the seats, “I’m never going to bitch about LAX again,” he jokes to O’Connor, lamely, as she checks his seatbelt. 

“LAX is garbage,” she agrees solemnly. “Hell on earth- ah fuck.” 

Lovett laughs softly, “you’re right,” he leans back against the headrest, “it is.”

It’s hell on earth, but not actual hell. There’s water and food and heat and fluorescent lighting and, “Diet Coke.”

“You want one?” O’Connor laughs gently. “I’m not sure you’re medically cleared, but I’ll sneak you one after takeoff if you want.”

Lovett grins at her. “You might be my new favorite person.” 

The plane lurches forward, engines whirring, wheels sliding along the runway, pressure going up. Lovett can’t breathe. 

The wheels lift off the ground and he’s pushed against the seat by the acceleration and he can’t _breathe_. 

His chest tightens painfully and his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his ribcage. _Jon.Jon.Jon.Jon.Jon. _His vision narrows to pinpricks of light, his hearing to the noise of the engine, he can taste iron on his tongue.

What if they crash again? What if they crash again and Lovett still hasn't _told_ Jon?

You don’t get to survive a plane crash twice. _Lovett_ certainly doesn’t have that kind of insane luck. 

It’s just a rickety piece of metal, fighting against currents and weather and birds and _gravity_. What chance in hell do they have of surviving it? 

“Lovett, _Lovett_,” O’Connor says, probably for the tenth or twelfth or twentieth time. He’s dimly away that he’s clutching her hand, that she’s saying something, voice low and steady, that her free hand is touching his shaking knee. “Lovett, it’s alright, we’re alright, take a deep breath for me; in and out.” 

It feels like hours before he can make his lungs draw air, slowly matching O’Connor’s quiet counting. 

“There you go,” she says gently, “in and out.”

Lovett shivers in his seat, breathes as slow as he can manage. He closes his eyes against the light. 

“Think of something good,” O’Connor’s voice is steady and warm. “Think about your favorite thing in the world. The Diet Coke I’m gonna get you once you breathe for me.”

Lovett shakes his head a little, desperately. Thinks about Jon, sprawled on the couch, Leo and Pundit in his lap. They flash out of focus. His parents, actually _smiling_ backstage at the live show they came to in Brooklyn. Blinking out of his mind in a burst of light. _Jon_. Steph, dancing at her wedding, into darkness. _Jon_. Tommy, laughing so hard he cried while Lovett played Jimmy Buffet on an apology video. Dissolving into drops of those tears. _Jon_. Tanya ordering them out of the studio. _Jon._

Jon laughing, Jon crying in anger, Jon doing a stupid dance when he thinks no one is watching, Jon throwing a ball with Andy in his backyard, Jon with a baby, Jon with Leo and Pundit. 

“Here you go,” O’Connor presses something cold into his hand. “As promised.” 

Lovett opens his eyes. Beautiful carcinogenic chemicals. 

He takes a careful sip and then another, trying not to groan too loudly as the soda hits his tongue. “Thank you,” he remembers to rasp, too late. O’Connor just winks at him. 

He’s finished his can by the time Ellen asks, thirty minutes or three hours later, “ahh, what’s… waiting for us... at home?” 

The Airman next to her bites his lip. 

“They think we’re dead,” Lovett says soft and shaky. They must, the time, and the way everyone’s reacted since. 

“Yeah,” O’Connor offers him her hand again. Lovett doesn’t take it, yet. “You were declared dead after three and a half weeks. They found a hundred and ninety-five bodies and assumed…”

Lovett swallows. “Scientifically…”

O’Connor nods. Ellen bursts into tears. 

Lovett turns it over in his head thoughtfully. Three hundred and fifty or so passengers, two hundred bodies. “There could be others?” he tells O’Connor with a frown. “Like us.”

“Maybe,” she says, mouth twisting a little, “I imagine there’ll be another search now, but-” 

Phillip. Lovett thinks suddenly. Marie’s husband, lost to the ocean or- “Is there a list?” Lovett presses, turning towards O’Connor, keeping his voice low. “Of who they found?” 

“I don’t know if that’s-” she starts. 

“Please,” Lovett asks. “It’s- I’d like to know. I want to see what it- what they heard.” 

O’Connor frowns. “I’m not supposed to…” Lovett can see in her eyes the moment she thinks _better than another panic attack, fuck it_ and turns to her bag, pulling out a tablet and tapping on it quietly.

She hands it over like it’s made of glass. Lovett’s heart pounds as he looks at the screen: _Who was lost in the HK 69 tragedy?_

He’s scrolling for the list, at first, then blinks and reverses course. There it is, right in the lede. _Notable passengers include Singapore tech magnate Taras Wankewycz, Agilent Technologies. CEO Michael McMullen, political commentator Jon Lovett_. 

_Political Commentator Jon Lovett_. Lovett feels a little thrill of ridiculous pride and hates himself for it. He’s _notable_. 

_“_Better to be _alive_,” Jon snaps in his head. 

Lovett reaches for his voice, holds it close as he scrolls again, reading more closely. There’s a quote from Tommy. It’s attributed to Crooked Media, but Lovett can _tell_ it’s Tommy. Tommy sounds sad and a little lost and Lovett could _cry_ at the proof in black and white that they _cared_.

His heart is in his throat as he gestures at the tablet in his hand. “This thing has internet?”

“Yeah,” O’Connor mumbles, “but-” 

“I just want to read…” Lovett shakes his head, clumsy fingers navigating to the search bar. His heart pounds in his throat _Jon, Jon, Jon_ as he googles: _Crooked Media_.

There’s a new website. They finally got _crooked.com_ after his and Tanya’s months-long email campaign. Lovett’s heart pounds at the sleek, modern design, clearly not done in Squarespace. 

_Podcasts. Reads. Team. Network. Take Action. Tour. Merch._

Lovett clicks on _Team_ with a shaking finger and scrolls past the blurb at the top, edited from the first bio they wrote huddled around Jon’s dining room table. 

_Founders_. 

His heart stops as Jon’s face looks back at him, bright as the sun, looking even better than he does in Lovett’s memories. His arms are crossed in that way straight boys seem to learn in high school to show off their muscles. _“Not straight,” Jon snorts, between Lovett’s knees in the sheets_. He’s doing some model smirk with his lips closed instead of his actual real gap-toothed grin, but there’s his perfect face and his perfect nose and his perfect five-o’clock shadow and his perfect eyes, shadowed by larger bags than usual and edged with more crows feet, Lovett thinks, than he had a year ago. 

Lovett lets his hand trace Jon’s pink, perfect lips while his eyes dart to the side and his heart jumps into his throat. _a role that was far more senior and influential than Jon Lovett’s_, his bio still reads, a leftover joke from years of throwing around script ideas that never went anywhere in their living rooms, in coffee shops, on the beach. And lower _now lives in Los Angeles with the world’s most perfect goldendoodles: Leo and Pundit. _

Lovett chokes around the lump in his throat and scrolls down, eyes burning with tears. His own photo’s next on the page. _“Alphabetical order,” Tommy says decisively, throwing Leo’s ball at Lovett’s chest in the middle of a spirited pitch for his own top billing_. 

Under his photo, steady font reads _Founder, Host of Pod Save America and Lovett or Leave It, 1982-2017_. It’s not the website’s fault that the words are blurring. His bio, to the right, reproduced exactly from the old site, with one addition, Tommy’s doing, probably, or Elijah trying to joke: _The whole company’s falling apart without his structural tower of desk cups. _

Lovett shakes his head, whispers “asshole,” and keeps scrolling. Tommy, grinning like an idiot who never learned to pose for photos. The team section: Tanya with a bio that shows how little time she had for this; Sarah’s serious, professional entry; Dan, with his dorky jokes and- he published a _book_. 

Elijah; Elisa; a bunch of faces Lovett doesn’t recognize. He keeps scrolling, skimming bios and titles, heart pounding at how much their baby’s grown without him. _Leo_, staring at his ball, _of course_. And below him, Pundit, _Pundit_. Her wide eyes staring at him soulfully, her mouth open for whichever person out-of-frame tried to bribe her with a treat. 

_Chairdoodle of the Board_. His girl. 

Lovett stares at her curls, her eyes, her nose, willing himself to draw breath. They’re all there, framed in this tiny glorious tablet. His _people_, his _family_. They’re okay, they’re thriving, he’s going to see them again and yell at Elijah for that stupid crack about his Diet Coke cans and Starbucks cups. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until O’Connor touches his elbow. “If this is too much,” she says carefully. 

“No, no,” Lovett shakes his head. He can’t lose them now. He scrolls back up to the top, eyes pausing again on Jon’s face, and clicks to the podcasts tab. 

There’s the new podcasts they were developing when he got on the plane. _Crooked Conversations, Majority 54, Keep It. _And- _Hysteria_ is Erin’s then-nascent show, he figures out with a click. They got Alyssa on board with her, big fucking get. 

_The Wilderness_. Lovett frowns and clicks to it, scrolling past the showy logo irritably. They made new things without him, of course they did, but he didn’t expect to have to _confront_ it in yellow and black and-

_The Wilderness is a documentary from Crooked Media and Two-Up about the history and future of the Democratic Party. Pod Save America’s Jon Favreau. _

Pod Save America’s Jon Favreau. Jon, Jon, Jon. 

_tells the story of a party finding its way out of the political wilderness through conversations with strategists, historians, policy experts, organizers, and voters._

Lovett opens another search window and googles _the wilderness, jon favreau_. There’s the expected hit pieces, from Bernie Bros mad it’s insufficiently leftist, likely. It’s got five stars on Stitcher and 4.8 stars on Apple Podcasts. A glowing _New Yorker_ review that Lovett can only read a few words of before his eyes start to blur. _“The Wilderness” itself seems like part of the answer_, accompanied by a header photo of Jon behind a microphone, face intent and eyes narrowed, that makes Lovett’s heart race. 

He goes back to the Crooked page, scrolling through episode descriptions that make his heart ache with pride. Jon did _this_. While Lovett was stuck in hell, Jon made something hopeful and promising and so very _him_ and Lovett needs him so fucking badly. 

“Do you have headphones?” he asks O’Connor desperately, before he can think twice, loading the first episode with shaking hands. 

She sighs softly but digs in her bag and hands a pair over, helps him plug them in when his fingers can’t manage. Lovett nods at her in thanks, already pressing play. 

He’s crying again by the time Jon’s voice says _The presenting sponsor of the Wilderness is Honey_. 

Lovett _misses_ him so much he can’t breathe, the steady sound of Jon’s smooth radio voice the only thing anchoring him to the world. 

Jon’s voice is almost too much to handle when Lovett still _doesn’t know_ and he’s still hours away. It's so so much for Lovett to want everything from Jon. 

He wants Jon to be okay and wants him to be falling apart without Lovett. He wants Crooked to be taking off and for it to be lagging. He wants them all to sit around and reminisce all day, but also wants them to be thriving and laughing and turning with the world even while Lovett's world has been standing still. 

Lovett curls his knees to his chest, closing his eyes against everything but the constant of Jon’s voice in his ears, sketching out the history of the Democratic party. 

When the first episode ends, he plays the second, then the third, listening to _Jon_ more than the words, clinging to the rhythm of his voice like a lifeline. Memories flashing before him, of a whole lifetime well lived, while he clings to that precious voice. 

Then the plane starts to sink and all his anxieties come rushing back. Lovett can’t get air into his lungs as they dip down and down and down. 

O’Connor grabs his knee “we’re landing, we’re fine.”

Jon’s voice asks careful interview questions. 

Someone else is touching his shoulder, murmuring reassuringly. The plane is _dropping_. 

The wheels hit the tarmac with a thud and they’re _on the ground_. 

There are palm trees out the window. The hulking monstrosity of LAX looms in the background. The lights of the city as faint as they can be behind the floodlights of the runway. It's so familiar and it's a dream and Lovett wants to run off the plane onto the tarmac and into a car, any car, that will bring him to Jon's doorstep.

“Just a little longer,” O’Connor squeezes his shoulder and guides him off the plane. 

Lovett’s ears are still ringing with Jon’s voice, his eyes drooping with exhaustion and dehydration, as they go into the hangar, as more military people surround him, as O’Connor’s comforting presence is replaced by more nurses prodding, more forms, more questions he can’t answer.

He almost doesn’t realize he’s saying it when he pleads quietly, “I just want to go home.”

"Where is home?" the officer asks, looking down at his paperwork with a frown.

Lovett gives, without even questioning it, Jon's address.

The officer walks away and Lovett closes his eyes, tries to breathe, until he comes back. He just needs to get home, needs to get to Jon.

The officer confirms quietly, “that house belongs to... Jon Favreau?” and tears slip down Lovett’s face as he nods. He hadn’t even thought of Jon moving, but he’s desperate with relief that he didn’t. 

The officer nods a little. “You have a full medical workup tomorrow, and we’ll discuss steps going forward then, but we have a car waiting for you out front.”

Lovett shudders, almost falling over when he tries to stand up. He’d agree to anything right now to get into that damn car. 

He can’t stop his tears as they lead him outside, put him into a black car, drive him into the city. Lovett stares out the window, tears rolling down his cheeks as he starts to see familiar streets, _just_ lit by the light of early dawn. 

He doesn’t even know what day it is anymore, but he’s in LA. He’s on his way to Jon. 

The sun is just peeking over Andy’s roof as the car rolls onto their street, _their street_, and stops in front of Jon’s familiar house. 

“Is this it?” The military guy driving turns to ask. 

Leo’s balls are strewn in the front yard. The flowers in the window box are long dead. Jon’s Audi is in the driveway, he’s always forgetting the garage door opener in the kitchen and not bothering to move the car after.

Lovett nods, speechless, and pushes the helpful hands off, mutters “I have to-l-”

He stumbles a little up Jon's driveway, across the trendy stone walk Jon hates cause the weeds grow between it. 

Lovett freezes on the doorstep, tries again to imagine what comes after the door opens. He still can’t _see_ it, but now he can find out. 

“Good or bad,” he whispers to the numbers painted on the frame, “at least you’ll know.”

He takes the deepest breath he can manage and finally, _finally_, raises a shaking hand to the doorbell.

The dogs, _the dogs_, bark from somewhere deep in the house, getting louder as they race for the door. Lovett blinks back tears. 

After an eternity, the doorknob twists and he can hear Jon laughing, “Pundit, Leo, shh,” through the door.

Lovett has to grab onto the doorjamb so he doesn't sink to the ground. _Jon_. He’s _here_. 

And then Jon is opening the door, his head down as he fends off the dogs. His hair is so so grey, shining a little in the sunrise.

Lovett’s chest is so tight it’s painful. It takes all the strength he has not to shut his eyes against what comes next as Jon straightens up.

Jon’s eyes go wide and his face goes white. 

The dogs rush out around their feet while Jon stares at Lovett. 

And stares. 

And stares. 

And stares. 

Lovett stares back at him, heart pounding, as Leo barks at their feet. 

Jon’s hair is so grey. He’s lost weight and gained wrinkles and he looks exhausted to the bone. But he’s so so beautiful. The most beautiful thing Lovett has ever seen. 

He can’t stand it, staring at each other, being so close to Jon and not _touching_. 

Lovett whispers, "Jon," through a cracked and aching throat as he takes an aborted step forward, his hand shaking as he starts to reach out.

Jon shakes his head a little, finally. “You’re not-“ he breathes shakily and says as if to himself “Lovett’s dead.”

Lovett’s breath catches. Jon sounds so _broken_.

"Since when do you listen to rumors?” Lovett tries to joke, but his throat is wet and raw and it comes out choked.

Jon’s whole body shakes as he slowly reaches out a hand. “It’s not a-” his fingers, his beautiful long lovely pianist fingers, landing on Lovett’s clammy, rough cheek. “The plane- they said-” he sobs a little, “you’re dead.”

Lovett feels steadier the second Jon touches him, lifts his own hand to Jon’s wrist, feeling Jon’s heartbeat even faster than his own. “They were wrong.”

Jon whimpers and takes a step closer. The sound breaks Lovett’s heart. "You can't be- this is a dream. I'm going to wake up any minute and-"

Lovett pinches Jon’s wrist, hard. "I’m not a dream."

Jon gasps, eyes still wide in disbelief laced with something that looks a lot like hope, and Lovett lets his other hand reach out finally, grabbing for Jon’s shoulder. He can prove it, if he needs to.

“Would I look like this in a dream? Would Pundit be growling at me - _angel, hey_ \- in a dream? Would the men in black who I’m sure are watching us like hawks from the street be here in a dream?” Lovett presses, voice stronger as he goes.

"No. Yes, I don't know,” Jon runs his thumb under Lovett's eyes, his touch so gentle and reverent Lovett almost bursts into tears again. "I've been dreaming about this for so long. How are you here?"

Lovett’s heart flips. Jon’s been dreaming- _Maybe_. 

“You know, ocean, island, some real survivor shit- I can catch and skin and cook fish now,” Lovett reaches for humor, pushes the dark memories down. “I have skills - boats and scary military dudes and-” he waves his hand a little. “Ta da.”

Jon glances at the car in the street, then down at Pundit, who's inching forward and sniffing at Lovett's hospital shoes. 

He finally whispers, voice choked and beautiful. “Lovett? You're really- Jon?"

Lovett’s voice breaks on a sob he can’t hold back, “I’m really.”

Jon’s hands shake as he grabs Lovett tighter and pulls him in and Lovett gasps out “Jon!” as Jon hugs him so so tight, encompassing Lovett in the feel of his soft worn t-shirt, the smell of the Old Spice he’s been wearing since college, the strength of his arms, the _Jon_ of him. 

They’re here. They’re together. Lovett’s home.

"I've," Jon rests his cheek against Lovett's hair. "I've thought about this so many times, but I never imagined-"

Lovett shakes his head and holds Jon even tighter. He can feel Jon’s heart racing as he squeezes back.

Jon lets out a shaky, rattling breath as he runs a hand down Lovett’s back and says, clear and crisp and- “I love you.”

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

Lovett sobs and pulls back, just enough to look at Jon as he promises, "Not a day went by on that island when I didn't wish I’d told you, before it was too late."

Jon shakes his head, eyes wet as he looks back. "Me too."

Lovett’s hands go to Jon’s face, holding him still, looking at him intently. He hasn’t said it yet. “I love you so much,” Lovett promises, with everything he has left in him and then he pulls Jon towards him and kisses him desperately, the way he’s been dreaming about for eleven months.

Jon pulls him close, tripping a bit and catching them both against the side of the door as he kisses back. “I am so in love with you," Jon whispers against Lovett’s lips, better than anything Lovett could have imagined, then pulls him impossibly closer to kiss him some more. 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m always dying about these idiots on [tumblr](everyonewillsee.tumblr.com), come chat, yell at me for the tears, etc


End file.
